The Hallowed Isle Book One

by Diana L. Paxson

  Was that a curse, wondered Igierne, or a promise? Morgause’s dark eyes grew round, then she bent and kissed the old woman’s papery cheek.

  “Grandmother, are you a queen?”

  Argantel smiled. “In a way I am. . . . Remember, whatever happens in the outer world, so long as the Lady of the Lake . . . rules here . . .” she paused, fighting for breath, “the Goddess still lives . . . in Britannia.”

  “Not in the South,” Igierne said bitterly. “The bishops preach against the old festivals, or change their meaning, and call woman the root of evil. The Saxons are pagans, therefore no loyal Briton can honor our ancient gods!”

  “That’s enough,” said Ebrdila. “You are tiring her.” Igierne remembered her mother telling her that the older woman had wanted to be High Priestess once. But she seemed honestly grief-stricken now.

  Argantel’s features twisted in a grimace that was trying to be a smile. “Let me talk. . . . I will be quiet soon.”

  “Cannot you do something?” Igierne asked Ebrdila. “You know all the secrets of healing here! Cannot the power of the Cauldron make her whole?” She did not speak of the Sword. Its power was of another kind.

  Ebrdila drew herself up. “Do you understand so little? The Hallows can set aright only that which counters the way of nature. But even the Cauldron cannot mend a heart which is outworn!”

  Argantel shook her head. “Truly, daughter, if you had not been here, I do not think I would have lived so long. . . . Do not waste the time I have left in mourning. You may weep when I am gone.”

  Igierne bit her lip and looked down. Morgause had slipped away from the bedside and was wandering about the chamber, fingering the hangings and carved beams, the vessels of silver and bronze, all the odd bits of paraphernalia that had accumulated there.

  “You have borne your daughter for the Lake. Now you must bear a son for Britannia.”

  “How? It has been months since Gorlosius sought my bed. But I was married by Christian rites. I cannot divorce him.”

  “Gorlosius will not . . . father your child.”

  “Who, then?”

  “You will know. . . .” Argantel’s smile faded. “But you must not fail . . . in your trust. Guard the Sword until your son is a man!”

  Igierne stared into her mother’s blue eyes that were so like her own. Argantel’s fingers twitched anxiously, and Ebrdila lifted her hand and set it on her daughter’s head.

  “Witness!” whispered the High Priestess. “To Igierne I pass the power! May the gods of our people bear witness to what I say!”

  She fell back and lay gasping, but Igierne swayed and nearly fell, dizzied by the pulse of energy, as if her mother’s life had passed into her through her hand.

  “Go. She will sleep now. I will call you if there is need.”

  There was command in Ebrdila’s voice, and Igierne rose, looking down at her mother’s closed face. She wanted to throw her arms around her, weeping, but Argantel was already leaving her. She bowed her head and turned, and as she did so, Ebrdila also stood, and made her the obeisance due a High Priestess, or a queen.

  That night, after Morgause had been put to bed, Igierne walked upon the shore. A little after Igierne had left her, Argantel had slipped into sleep as well, a slumber from which she could not be wakened. From the house of the High Priestess Igierne could hear singing as the women of the Isle of Maidens chanted the verses that guide a departing spirit home.

  The past few days had been cloudy, but tonight the sky was clear, and the quiet waters of the lake glittered with reflected stars. As she gazed, light seemed to blossom beneath the waters. She looked up and saw the comet, hanging like a firedrake in the sky.

  For a long time she watched it, her heart wrenched between anguish and exaltation. When at last she sought her bed, she dreamed of a battle on the sands. In the chill hour just before sunrise, Ebrdila woke her to say that her mother was gone.

  Londinium was hot and crowded and full of bad smells. The only thing it did not have in overabundance, thought Igierne, was Saxons. Riding through the empty lands along the Tamesis, she had longed for the safety of the Lake. Now she longed for its peace. Her horse snorted and tried to rear as a peddler waved a tray of glass bangles almost under its nose. She reined the beast down, glancing at her husband in irritation.

  “If you were going to ask me again to allow you to return to the Isle of Maidens,” said Gorlosius, “the answer is still no. I gave you leave to attend your mother’s deathbed, not to become the High Priestess of a pagan cult. You will not speak of that while we are in Londinium, do you understand? The princes will not choose a man who would bring them a pagan queen!”

  Since the death of his father, she thought angrily, he had become even more autocratic.

  “Do you think my silence will make any difference?” asked Igierne. “They all know who I am. I thought it was for an alliance with the powers of the North that you married me.”

  “The secular power of the North,” he snapped in reply. “And you should not have left my daughter on the Isle.”

  “Your message commanded my presence at your side,” she answered sweetly. “It said nothing of Morgause.”

  “Well, that is past praying for now, and perhaps it will do no harm. Until she reaches an age for marriage no one will care too much where a girl-child is bestowed.”

  “I wonder that you men have not found some other method of begetting offspring if you consider females of such little worth.”

  Gorlosius refused to dignify that sally with an answer. The old governor’s palace was before them; the warriors guarding the gate straightened to attention as the Cornovian prince rode in, and returned Igierne’s smile. It was not their fault that her husband had ordered her to join him, she thought as they continued across the inner courtyard. And she might need friends one day.

  The basilica of Londinium was the largest building Igierne had ever seen, and drafty. It was a place for court and council, and so it remained. The altar which had once received incense for the emperor had been taken down, but the flaking portraits of dead Caesars still watched from the walls. In Byzantium, she had heard, the emperor was still treated as if he were a god. She sighed as she watched the gesticulating figures below from her place with the other wives. Things were different in Britannia.

  “There was a time,” Eleutherius of Eburacum was saying as he addressed the other princes, “when our numbers would have been too many even for this hall! Too many of our men of good family have gone to Armorica. It is those of us who have remained, standing fast against the enemy, who should rule, not a man whose family fled.”

  “Nonsense!” Uthir answered him. “Half the lords of Dumnonia and Demetia rule more lands in lesser Britannia than they do here. My father never ran from the Saxons; my brother and I went only to avoid weakening this island by civil war. And when Britannia called we came back again. You summoned the ‘sons of Ambrosius’ to come and lead you—not Aurelianus alone. You’ve already chosen me!”

  He had not raised his voice, but it carried clearly. He was too far away for Igierne to make out his features, but she wondered if the relaxed lines of his body represented unconcern or an exquisite control.

  The woman sitting beside her leaned closer. “He only says the truth. And they say his soldiers love him. If he went outside and appealed to the men, they would raise him on their shields as emperors were made in the old days.”

  Why was it only the men who were deciding? wondered Igierne. The Saxons killed women as well as warriors. It was said, of course, that a woman influenced the outcome by influencing her husband, but to Gorlosius, she was only a symbol of his status, like the golden torque he wore. Her father, she remembered, had valued her mother’s wisdom. In that moment she missed them both acutely. How foolish she had been to expect that her own marriage would be the same.

  “Your husband is not a candidate, then?” asked Igierne.

  “Oh no. He is Caius Turpilius, a gentleman of good family, but no p
rince. I am Flavia. But Uthir will have his vote. My husband has served with the prince through several campaigns.”

  “So has mine,” answered Igierne dryly. “But I think I would rather have Uthir as High King.”

  Flavia, once she had started talking, seemed eager to be friendly. Igierne learned in short order that she had a young son at home and would like more children, but feared it was not to be, for the child was large, and the birth had been a hard one.

  “A fine strapping boy is my Cai, but it’s hard to bear sons, knowing that as soon as they can hold a blade they’ll be off to war. I could almost wish he had been a girl.”

  “Girls can be a trial too,” said Igierne, remembering how Morgause had wept when she rode away. But she was more certain than ever that she had been wise to leave the girl safe in the North.

  Eldaul of Glevum was speaking now. His connection with Vitalinus gave him a claim, but was also his greatest liability. Fortunately he seemed to be without ambition, and was supporting his commander.

  “Do you think the Protector of Eburacum a serious contender?” asked Flavia.

  “He would like to be, but he is young and untried,” answered Igierne dispassionately. “The same goes for Agricola of Demetia, and Honorius. Many of the men who might have been contenders died at Sorviodunum. Northerners from beyond the Wall, like Ridarchus, are too far away to be considered, though they make useful allies. I hope that they will choose Uthir.”

  “You know a great deal about it—” said Flavia.

  “Really? You would never think it, to hear my husband. . . .”

  Flavia followed the direction of her gaze and understanding dawned suddenly. “You don’t want to be queen?”

  “I don’t particularly want Gorlosius to be High King,” Igierne replied.

  Flavia raised one eyebrow, then her eyes widened. “And who in the name of Christ and His holy mother is that?”

  She pointed, and Igierne saw a tall figure that appeared to have formed itself from the shadows behind Uthir. A singularly inappropriate invocation, thought Igierne, recognizing, even at this distance, the slightly stooping posture and the dark hair. But he had changed; his finery had been replaced by a plain white robe and his beard swept his chest. As if he had felt her gaze upon him, he looked up, eyes fierce as a hawk’s beneath heavy brows.

  “That is my cousin,” she said softly, “Merlin. . . .”

  She did not encounter Merlin again until the Council was over and the princes and their wives gathered at the church to see Uthir anointed and crowned. Despite the arguments, the choice had been, she thought, inevitable. The Pendragon’s name was on every tongue. If the princes had chosen another ruler, no one would have followed him.

  During the Council, Igierne had come to value Flavia’s simple friendliness. They stood together now outside the little church, mantles wrapped tightly, for a damp wind had come up, promising rain. With the other women and less important chieftains they waited for the princes to emerge, for the little church could not hold them all. Merlin stood apart, appearing rather monkish himself in his white robe. But from what she had heard, he was no longer any kind of Christian at all. From time to time she would find him watching her, but when their eyes met he looked away.

  Before we leave here I will find time to talk to him, she thought, even if Gorlosius disapproves.

  If the bishop sealed the rite by offering communion she wondered if her husband would receive it. It was a sin, she had been told, to take the sacrament when one’s heart was full of anger or envy, and Gorlosius had been festering with fury since the decision was made. She listened with half an ear to Flavia chatter about her eagerness to get back to her child and her home, reflecting that this was what a marriage should be.

  I will go home to Dun Tagell with Gorlosius, she told herself, but when he goes off to fight again, I will leave as well. The Lady of the Lake should not be at any man’s beck and call.

  The church doors swung open. From inside came a wave of incense and the sound of voices joined in song. Men began to come out of the sanctuary, blinking in the light. A murmur of anticipation spread through the crowd.

  “The Pendragon! The High King comes!”

  Igierne felt a wave of dizziness and took a deep breath. Interesting, she thought—his brother had been addressed as emperor, but Uthir obviously favored a British title, accepting that the Roman days were done. More men emerged, a guard of honor, who stood away to either side, drawing their swords. She moved back a little and felt a hand grasp her elbow. It was Merlin.

  “You must stay here until they come. . . .”

  Before she could ask why, color blazed at the church door. The bishop was coming through, clad in his embroidered cope, and beside him, his brow bound with gold and his shoulders draped in a purple mantle that flowed over a white garment like a priest’s gown, came the king.

  He looked dazed, thought Igierne, and not because the sun was coming out at last. His gaze was the rapt stare of one who has looked on a holy thing. Two priests guided him between the lines of warriors; he blinked and lifted a hand to acknowledge the cheers.

  The crowd surged toward him, shouting, but somehow Merlin was in front of them, still holding Igierne by the arm.

  “All hail to the Pendragon of Britannia—” said Merlin. Igierne knew that the people were still shouting, but the noise was muted, as if the three of them stood within a bubble that shut out sound. “I bring you the blessing of the ancient powers, and I bring you the White Raven, the hidden queen!”

  Slowly, Uthir’s gaze moved from Merlin to Igierne. What was he seeing? She had cast back her hood when the sun came out and with it her veil; she could feel the sun warm on her hair. She felt herself flushing as the dazed wonder in his face became a very focused awe.

  Abruptly she understood that he was seeing not an ordinary woman, the wife of one of his chieftains, but the Goddess in mortal form. And understanding, her own awareness became that of the priestess, and looking upon him, she saw not Uthir the man, but the King.

  It was Gorlosius who broke the spell.

  “Come away, woman!” He took her arm and pulled her after him. “And put on your veil. Our great king has better things to do than stare at you!”

  They turned a corner and he let her go, glaring. “What did Uthir say to you?”

  Igierne straightened her mantle and drew her veil back over her hair. “He said nothing. Nothing at all,” she said coldly.

  He had not needed to, she thought as she turned and began to walk toward their lodgings. As king and queen their spirits had touched, and she could not predict what was going to happen now.

  Igierne had been taught that the six weeks before the equinox were a time of change, in both the inner worlds and the lands of men. True it was that no sooner had she and Gorlosius arrived at Dun Tagell than the weather grew stormy. From then until the autumnal equinox, the outer coasts of Dumnonia were lashed by violent weather, but the conflicts in the skies were only a mild reflection of the tumults in the affairs of men.

  For Gorlosius, overriding by sheer force of will his father’s old councilors, had declared Dumnonia a kingdom separate from Britannia, and renounced his oaths to the High King. The rock of Dun Tagell, which had known peace since Vitalinus brought the Cornovii down from the north to drive the men of Eriu away, became a garrison.

  The Latin name for the place was Durocornovium, the stronghold of the Cornovii. Its defenses were limited to a wall that enclosed a hall and a barracks built of the native stone, but it needed no more, for it was set on an outcrop at the edge of the sea, with only a narrow bridge of rock to link it to the land. It was not clear to Igierne whether her husband had settled her there to hold it for him, or whether the dozen men assigned to it were there to keep watch on her. Gorlosius himself paid her only an occasional visit. Isca Dumnoniorum and Durnovaria were the first lines of his defense, and to her relief he had little time for his western holdings.

  From time to time word came to them
of the progress of the war. The new High King, desperate to settle the situation before the Saxons could organize themselves to take advantage of British disunity, had struck swiftly and hard. Gorlosius had fallen back from Durnovaria and made a new frontier at Isca, but Uthir, seeking to besiege him in the city, left a back way open, and instead of driving his enemy down toward Belerion in the toe of the peninsula, had allowed him to escape toward the western coast where Gorlosius had hopes of joining with allies from Eriu.

  By the time Uthir caught up with him his enemy had gone to ground once more in an ancient hill-fort called Dimilioc, a few miles south of Dun Tagell. And there they held, as the cold winds blew and the nights lengthened toward winter, until the feast of Samhain, when the dead come home.

  Torchflames flickered wildly in the draft, chasing shadows like fleeing bogles into the corners of the hall. Try though they might, thought Igierne, they could never make the building completely proof against the wind. Always before, she had spent the winter in the villa above the sheltered waters of the Fawwyth, on the protected southern coast of Cornovia. In the summer Dun Tagell could be delightful, with the gulls calling as they wheeled above and the sunlight sparkling on the waves. But it was a cold and damp and dismal place to spend the wintertime!

  With a silent curse for the husband who had left her here, Igierne set the basket of apples, last of the summer’s store, up on the table. It was a poor feast—if they had any sense, those spirits to whom it was offered would return to some table that was better supplied. If there were enough, she reflected, frowning, to go around. In these past years so many had died, and so many of the families who did survive had fled the land. Any ancestors who sought them would have a long way to go.

  And so she set out the fruit and the barley bread, and the dishes of boiled meat and cheese. And despite the draft, she fixed the great doorway just a little ajar so that any spirit that might wish to share the hospitality of Dun Tagell could come in.

  Certainly the men of her garrison appreciated the break in the monotony of their duty. There was no mead, but when she brought round the ale pitcher they grinned and held out their cups. The drinking went on until late, for there were many toasts to be made, to comrades lost in the recent fighting, to her mother, and to Aurelianus, who lay now in the barrow beside the Giant’s Dance with the lords whom Hengest had slain.